


in your heart like a stone

by orphan_account



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Drabble, Other, Past Relationship(s), Post-Relationship, Post-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-04 01:52:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12760701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Maybe that bullet she took to the head was worse than she thought.





	in your heart like a stone

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't seen any fics with dinah yet so here we all are. i'm not sure what this is or how it happened but i'll probably write more for dinah later.
> 
> sorry for any typos.
> 
> title source: [everything in its own time - indigo girls](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YXHeq3RF6AM).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dinah can’t sleep.

Being in a hospital is nothing new to her. She’s been here before. Maybe not in this exact building, but she knows this place, its routines, the way bodies in this place go up and down the halls, trying to fill up the cold emptiness that settles over her particular corner of the hospital. She tried to sleep earlier, but the yawning dark outside her room is too sprawling for her liking. She’s used to the dark, but there’s something wrong about the way the light from above the nurses’ station slants into her room, weak light balanced on the edge of a knife.

Maybe it’s worse this time around because she knows Billy Russo is somewhere nearby. Maybe that bullet she took to the head was worse than she thought.

Dinah’s hands curl into fists; she thinks of him and his mangled face, the way the doctor avoided going into detail, for fear of causing her distress, and how there’s a chance he might not wake up. She wants him to. She really, really wants him to. Disgust, like a viper aiming for the throat, shoots through her and clamps down. Her head ache; she wants to shut her eyes and block out that which is encroaching, that which she has been trying all night not to think about. Half-visions and partly-remembered sensations—of him pointing his gun at her and she at him in the stair well, of him turning off the water in the bath and washing the blood from her face, of his hands on her waist—are kept at bay with a stubborn shake of the head. Digging her nails into her wrist to distract herself, she grits her teeth and sits up.

Dinah gets out of bed. If her mother were here, she’d ask, “what would it accomplish?” Dinah’s not exactly sure, but she doesn’t care, either. There’s something dark and angry stirring in her gut, twisting itself into knots as she makes her way down the hall. She almost misses it; she doesn’t anticipate the sight of it through the window, really: his mangled face, wrapped bandaged and held together with tape and gauze. Her jaw is clenched so tight it hurts—and that brings her back down, back to herself, and out of that room. She doesn’t reach for the door, but it’s as if there’s something pulling on her.

It’s as if he tied a fine thread to her hipbone and won’t keep pulling, not even when the doctors predict he may never wake up. And she wishes she could cut him from her, sever that tie—but she’s stock still, body rigid, comprised of hard edges and cold lines. Her hands are still clenched tight into fists.

“Wake up,” she tells Russo, remembering how she spoke to Sam as he died in her arms. “I know you’re in there. Wake up.” Her trigger finger itches for her sidearm; anger—and shame, but mostly anger—curls through her.

Dinah wants to be the first—and last—thing he ever sees.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
